


The Elegant Ghosts of Art Deco

by china_shop



Series: Comeback Tour [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, New Relationship, intimacy is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When it comes to relationships, he's discovering, sex is the easy part.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Elegant Ghosts of Art Deco

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of a sort of character study than anything else. Set directly after [The Landscape from the Inside](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1508369). References past Steve/Peggy.
> 
> A million thanks to mossybomb for beta, and the EliseM for the title.

"You know, I wasn't even the big Captain America fan in my family when I was a kid." Sam sounds half-asleep, and Steve is distracted by the novelty of nakedness, the sheer pleasure of so much warm skin pressed up against him.

"Is that so?" It hadn't occurred to him that Sam must have family. He traces the jut of Sam's hip bone with his thumb and stops himself from asking if they're still alive. It's a ghoulish question. Why wouldn't they be? Sam must have been born in the late seventies or early eighties, which sounds futuristic _and_ long past to Steve but isn't actually that long ago.

"Yeah, my sister had real bad asthma. She used to read all the comics, and then she'd dress up in her blue jumpsuit and pretend to inject herself with serum and join your Howling Commandos." Sam laughs softly. "If she could see me now."

Steve blinks at the warm mischief in his eyes and raises a teasing eyebrow of his own. "That could get awkward."

"Ha! Yeah, not _now_ now." Sam's hand is exploring too, idly stroking Steve's thigh. "Maybe one day."

This is the second time he's volunteered personal information. It's what friends and lovers do: divulge secrets, get to know each other. Steve should reciprocate. He's the one who recently took a stand for freedom and openness, spilling thousands of people's secrets into the public domain. To keep his own hidden is bordering on hypocritical. But it's different with partners. With lovers. Steve will confide in Sam, but not while he's still churned up by recent events. Sam learned Steve's past in history lessons and comic books, and he must have heard all kinds of horror stories at the VA, so Steve's pretty sure his demons won't freak Sam out or even surprise him, but giving voice to them – admitting how recent and painful those legends are – would crack Steve's façade of cheerful invulnerability, and sometimes his façade is all that holds him together. 

He needs to keep it together. There's no time to fall apart.

As if to challenge Steve's resolve, Sam yawns and says, "So, tell me what makes Steve Rogers tick. Who were your heroes?"

Steve thinks fast, reaches for a distant truth. "My father. He was in the 107th infantry."

Sam's hand goes still. It seems he already knows this story. "I'm sorry, man."

"It was a long time ago," says Steve, and Sam kisses his shoulder and lets the subject drop. 

Later that night, Steve lies awake remembering the stories his mom would tell about his father. Thinking about Peggy's fearlessness, and Dr. Erskine, and – and other people he used to know.

 

*

 

When he wakes the next morning, Sam's on the other side of the room, talking on the phone in a low rapid voice. "You're right, you're right, sorry, man. I'll be there. We'll work out a schedule, I'll talk you through— Yeah. Okay, good. One hour." 

He hangs up, and the muscles in his back shift as he scrubs his hand over his head. He's naked but for his shorts, and his body is scarred and beautiful. Looking at him, Steve feels foolish for ever assuming he was a regular pilot. Even without the wing pack, Sam looks like he could running-jump take off and fly – broad, strong and free.

Steve feels good this morning; the usual compulsion to get moving, to push himself to the point where he'll break a sweat, is subdued, surpassed by the desire to stay right here, horizontal, preferably with Sam next to him. He stretches and yawns noisily.

Sam drops his phone on his pile of clothes and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. "I woke you."

Steve shakes his head. It doesn't matter.

"I have to stop by the VA. People I need to see. Might take a couple of days to get everything sorted out." Sam grimaces an apology. "I know you wanted to hit the road ASAP, but I can't leave them hanging." He's not touching Steve, and Steve can't tell if that's by design, but there's a faint hum of tension in the air.

"Come here," says Steve, and closes his fingers around Sam's wrist, pulling him down for a kiss. A reacquainting. Sam instantly relaxes and kisses back, his hand landing on Steve's bare shoulder, sliding down to his waist. He ends it before things gets too heated, but Steve understands. "It's fine. Your work is important. We have time."

He doesn't say there's someone he needs to see too, before they can leave. The words stick in his throat. 

When it comes to relationships, he's discovering, sex is the easy part.

 

*

 

Sam's not the first person Steve's been attracted to in the twenty-first century, not by a long shot. The women Nat tried to set him up with – capable women with shiny hair and regular jobs and lives – were pretty and friendly, and in another time and place, Steve would have been happy to take any one of them dancing, get to know her. But this is here and now. He has a lot to deal with, and since he arrived he's been trying not to drag anyone else into his mess.

With Sam, Steve let himself fall. Or maybe it wasn't a choice. Maybe it's because Sam's a man, or because Steve couldn't hold out any longer, keeping the world at arm's length, or because Sam's the first person since Peggy who's seemed strong enough to handle whatever comes next. He's light-hearted but not lightweight. Funny. Grounded. Trustworthy. Kind.

And vital and sexy too. He makes Steve feel alive, and Steve needs that, existing as he does in a perpetual war zone, even now, even here. In war, he's learned, you have to grab your opportunities for happiness with both hands and hold on as tight as you can.

Whatever triggered it, Steve knows they're moving too fast. He cares about Sam, he didn't lie about that last night, but he feels guilty at how much he needs human touch, how desperately he wants to be with someone. There's no escaping the fact his inner landscape is pocked with craters and littered with the charred remains of people and places he can never see again. That Sam is an oasis only serves to highlight how desolate the rest of it is, and that's not fair on either of them.

 

*

 

Steve takes Peggy's frail hand, holds it firmly enough to stop the slight tremor of age. "I'm here. I'm fine."

"You're always fine," says Peggy, wryly. She's having one of her good days. "And you did it, Steve. You stopped them again."

"It's a beginning. I'm betting there's still a lot to do." Steve sees her eyes start to dim and changes the subject. He didn't come to talk about HYDRA or SHIELD, but they're practically small talk compared to what he has to say next. "I—I've met someone else." He gathers his courage. "He's a good guy. He's one of the good guys."

She smiles, perfectly lucid and unfazed by the telltale pronoun. _Has she always known that about him? Did it make her doubt his devotion to her?_ She asks, "Will he take care of you?" and it's the goofiest question he can remember hearing from her. He's Captain America; he doesn't need looking after. But she seems serious, so he matches her tone when he answers.

"Yeah, he will. He does." Steve has no doubt of that. When he falls, however he falls, Sam catches him. 

Peggy drops her gaze before Steve can tell if she's wistful. The gold band on her finger catches the light. "Then I'm glad. It's time you found someone." 

_It should have been you,_ he thinks, the reaction automatic, but it's too late for that. When he first came back, he wanted to marry her, to make the most of the time they had left, and she flat out refused, scolding him for trying to throw his life away on an old lady. He pushes the thought aside. "So, we're leaving town – something I have to do. I won't be able to visit for a while."

"You'll find him," says Peggy, patting his hand, and Steve doesn't know if she means Sam or if she's somehow heard about Bucky, but she looks tired.

"I'll write," he promises, and leaves her to sleep.

 

*

 

He drops by the Smithsonian and formally apologizes to the head curator, Ms. Elgin, for breaking in. It's a civilian institution, and he doesn't want her to blame the security staff for the disappearance of the suit. From the way she greets him, she must be one of the 53 percent of Americans who, according to the latest poll, value freedom over so-called security and are in favor of the dissolution of SHIELD.

"I'm sorry I didn't go through the proper channels to borrow the suit, but it was an emergency. If there's anything left of it, I can arrange for it to be cleaned and returned," says Steve, though he suspects the thing was cut off him at the hospital, if not before, and is now in blood-stained tatters. 

But Ms. Elgin looks grateful as well as star-struck and says it can certainly be restored. She gets her assistant to photograph them together, and then the Pentagon calls Steve, and he makes his excuses.

 

*

 

The Pentagon is pushing for an answer that Steve doesn't want to give. He'd reject them outright and change his phone number, but Sam made some good points about rogue power and democracy the night before, and Steve wants to give them due consideration before making a final decision. On the other hand, _Sam_ hasn't just spent two years working for HYDRA in sheep's clothing, a council that was prepared to fire a nuke on Manhattan and pre-emptively execute millions of people. All institutions are suspect now. Steve's not sure he could take orders from anyone he doesn't personally know and trust.

He barely admits to himself the other reason he's so reluctant to re-enlist: by definition, any military views the world as a potential threat and arms itself to the best of its ability. In other words, the Pentagon might be less interested in saving Bucky, and more in coopting the Winter Soldier, keeping him weaponized. 

 

*

 

Sam arrives back at the safe house at six-thirty. He walks in the door looking wiped out, but when he sees Steve on the floor doing one-armed press-ups – just to pass the time – amusement lights his face. "You been doing that all day? I bet you have. Did you benchpress the furniture too?" He looks around the sparsely decorated room. "Not much of a challenge here. We should get you some heavier furniture."

"Gotta stay in shape somehow," says Steve, deadpan. He switches hands. 

Sam drops his jacket by the foot of the bed and sits down to take off his boots. "So, honey, how was your day? Any developments I should know about?"

Steve's warmth at the unexpected endearment is tempered with discomfort. "No word from Natasha or Fury," he says, dodging the question. Unable to say Peggy's name. He stands and gets them each a soda from the small fridge in the kitchenette 

Sam must sense Steve's tension, because he takes a slurp of Coke and relents, eyeing Steve up and down. "Hey, you know what else is good exercise?"

The entendre sends a wave of base, visceral desire through Steve, so intense that sweat prickles the small of his back, though he does manage to keep his voice light. "And that's a purely utilitarian suggestion, I'm sure."

Sam puts down his drink and moves close, his lips curving as he leans in, his breath tickling Steve's lips. "Oh, nothing pure about it."

He tastes sweet, like soda, and his kisses are eager and open in a way that breaks Steve's heart and fills him up at the same time. They go to bed, and Steve lets himself forget about Peggy and the other, darker shadow in his life, caught up in the uncomplicated pleasure of Sam's hands and body and gleaming smile. In companionship and connection and the breathy gasps Sam makes when he's close and trying not to come yet, his cock sliding hard between Steve's lips. 

They lie tangled together afterwards, Sam still catching his breath, and Steve is fiercely glad to be there, but he's still lost for words. Reticence is a hard habit to break.

Sam touches his cheek with a gentle fingertip. "You can say it if you want to." He sees Steve's silent query. "Whatever it is you're not saying, I can handle it. But look, I know you're a private guy. I get that. You don't _have_ to tell me anything." 

_It's nothing, really,_ Steve wants to say. Even to admit he has troubles feels transgressive. He's one of the lucky ones. The luckiest. But he won't pretend to Sam there's nothing on his mind. He focuses on the curve of Sam's ear lobe and sighs. "I want to, but. There's a lot, and it's all mixed up together. I don't want to burden you."

"It's not a burden," says Sam quietly, and from anyone else, the assurance would sound trite; from Sam, who knows how bad things can get, it comes across as incredibly brave and steadfast. "It's me getting to know who you are, what you're going through. But, for the record, you're not one of my clients, okay? If you were, we couldn't do this." He gestures between them. "So anything you want to say, it's cool. Whenever you're ready. But you don't have to."

Steve shuts his eyes. Somehow the permission not to speak is loosening his tongue far more effectively than questions could. At the same time, he doesn't want to hurt Sam's feelings with talk of old loves and old friends. "This feels good," he starts, "being with you." 

Sam's hand is warm on his chest, his voice quiet. "I like it too."

"I, uh, don't have a lot of experience at this kind of thing."

"I'm getting that," says Sam, not teasing for once. Infinitely patient.

Steve wonders what gave him away. He licks his lips and opens his eyes, about to tell, to say Peggy's name. But then his phone buzzes with a text, derailing the confession. "I need to see who that is."

"Sure."

Steve climbs over Sam and fishes his phone out of his abandoned jeans. It's a message from Nat: a graveyard rendezvous, 8 am the next morning. 

"Everything okay?" Sam's up on one elbow, watching, ready to spring into action if it's an emergency. Steve tosses him the phone so he can see for himself. "What's NA?"

"No Alert," says Steve. "It's not a crisis."

"That's good, because we're not getting into any more firefights until after my new wing pack arrives." Sam scratches his neck. "Listen, there's something else I need to say."

It sounds serious. Steve sits next to him. "Yeah?"

"Just, I get that I'm new on the scene." Sam meets his eye briefly and looks away. "I'm your friend, whatever happens. Your – your boyfriend, if you want." He says it quickly, as if he's embarrassed.

"I want." Steve ducks his head, waiting for Sam to finish. Waiting for the _but._

"Good," says Sam. "But we've known each other less than two weeks. I don't expect to suddenly be promoted to the most important person in your life, you know? That kind of thing takes time."

The matter-of-fact generosity takes Steve's breath away. He sends Sam a teasing look. "Less than two weeks, and you're already in the top three."

"The top three, huh? That's not bad." Sam's grin is incandescent. "And that's with you spending most of that time dodging explosives _and_ being unconscious for a couple of days in there."

"It's been a busy time," Steve agrees solemnly, and wrestles him back onto the bed, squirming when Sam tickles him, laughing and relieved. Right now, he's more interested in getting Sam off again than sharing secrets, putting to use the supplies he bought at a drug store on his way back to the safe house, but the hard knot in his chest has loosened, and when the time comes – maybe later, in the dark, while the rest of the world is sleeping – some names are finally ready to be spoken. 

 

END


End file.
